Citadel

Illustrated by van Dongen
He was looking for a privacy his strange personality needed. And—never quite seemed to achieve it. All his efforts were, somehow—great triumphs of the race, and great failures for him!
The aging man was sweating profusely, and he darted sidelong glances at the windowless walls of the outer office. By turns, he sat stiffly in a corner chair or paced uneasily, his head swiveling constantly.
His hand was clammy when Mead shook it.
Hello, Mr. Mead, he said in a husky, hesitant voice, his eyes never quite still, never long on Mead's face, but darting hither and yon, his glance rebounding at every turn from the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the closed outer door.
Christopher Mead, Assistant Undersecretary for External Affairs, returned the handshake, smiling. Please come into my office, he said quickly. It's much more spacious.
Thank you, the aging man said gratefully and hurried into the next room. Mead rapidly opened the windows, and some of the man's nervousness left him. He sank down into the visitor's chair in front of Mead's desk, his eyes drinking in the distances beyond the windows. Thank you, he repeated.
Mead sat down behind the desk, leaned back, and waited for the man's breathing to slow. Finally he said, It's good to see you again, Mr. Holliday. What can I do for you?
Martin Holliday tore his glance away from the window long enough to raise his eyes to Mead's face and then drop them to the hands he had folded too deliberately in his lap.
I'd— His voice husked into unintelligibility, and he had to begin again. I'd like to take an option on a new planet, he finally said.
Mead nodded. I don't see why not. He gestured expressively at the star chart papered over one wall of his office. We've certainly got plenty of them. But what happened with your first one?
It d-d-duh—